


Merciless

by Bunnywest



Series: Thighs Verse [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dom Peter Hale, Edging, Established Relationship, Kinktober 2019, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Punishment, Sub Stiles Stilinski, ruined orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 09:16:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21013391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: Peter puts a hand under his chin, tilting it up so he’s looking Stiles in the eye. “I only have one rule, Stiles. One. It’s to keep you safe, you know that.”Stiles does know. He nods.“Yet you chose to disregard it.”Stiles bites his lip. “I’m so sorry, Sir.”“You never, ever, worry me like that again, you hear?” Peter growls.Stiles nods again, and whispers out, “No, Sir.” His hands curl into fists as he says, “Please punish me?”





	Merciless

**Author's Note:**

> For Kinktober, Day 14 - Orgasm Denial.  
________________________________________

Stiles opens his eyes and immediately scrunches them closed again against the merciless assault of daylight. Who made everything so bright? Who authorised that jackhammer in his skull? And why isn’t Peter fixing this for him like he normally does? Stiles doesn’t go out drinking often, but when he does Peter normally just rolls his eyes at the inevitable hangover, drains his pain, feeds him Gatorade, and laughs at his expense. Why isn’t he doing those things today?

Stiles opens his eyes again, more slowly this time. Peter’s there, sitting in a chair next to their bed, arms folded. “Decided to surface, have we?” He isn’t laughing, Stiles notes. In fact, he looks distinctly pissed.

Stiles licks his lips. “Thirsty,” he croaks out.

Peter arches a brow.“You know where the kitchen is.” He doesn’t move, just sit there and continues to glare. Stiles blinks and slowly sits up, a hand to his head, and tries to figure out exactly why he’s in trouble. Peter normally doesn’t care if he goes out, as long as he calls and lets him know where he is, that he’s safe…

Shit.

Events start to replay in his brain, and Stiles isn’t sure if the swooping in his stomach is nausea or dread. He went out all right, impromptu drinks with his workmates to celebrate a new contract. So impromptu, in fact, that he’d broken Peter’s one hard and fast rule.

It’s something that’s not up for negotiation. If Stiles goes out, he calls and lets Peter know where he is.

But he hadn’t called Peter, had he? No. He’d considered it, and then just…not done it. Even worse, when Peter had texted him to ask where he was, he’d ignored it,though he can't remember exactly why. And when his phone had started ringing repeatedly? He’d been drunk enough that he’d turned it off.

_He’d turned off his phone_

That’s definitely dread curling in his gut. “Sir-”

Peter holds a hand up. “Have a shower, brush your teeth. You reek. Then come and find me when you’ve given some thought to what you did.” He stands, turns on his heel and stalks out of the room.

Stiles watches his departing back, and wonders exactly how much trouble he’s in. But really, he doesn’t have to wonder. He knows.

He’s in _deep_ shit.

* * *

Stiles gets himself a drink of water, takes some aspirin, then heads for the shower, hoping it will help. As he stands under the hot water, he wonders what the hell he was thinking, not letting Peter know where he was. It’s not like it’s even an unreasonable request – it’s common courtesy. Add to that the fact that Peter is, after all, an Alpha wolf and protective as fuck when it comes to his husband, and it only makes sense that he wants to know Stile is safe.

Stiles remembers now. They’d gotten the contract, and the manager had invited them out, declaring drinks were on him. And right then, that’s where Stiles could have sent Peter a quick text, and it would have been fine. But someone made a crack about “Aw look, Hale has to check in with the man of the house before he’s allowed out to play,” and Stiles’s ego had taken a hit. Sure, maybe Stiles shouldn’t have listened. Maybe he should have called Peter anyway. But pride’s a strange beast, and he’d shoved the phone back in his pocket, deciding on the spur of the moment that hey, surely it wouldn’t matter just this once, ignoring the warning klaxon shrieking in the back of his head.

Stiles is an idiot.

Memories of the night flood back, and he has to take a deep breath when he recalls what else happened. When Peter had texted and called, he’d deliberately ignored, it, the taunt about having to ask permission ringing in his ears. By the time midnight rolled round Stiles was well hammered, certainly wasn’t fit to drive, and Jim from accounting had shared an Uber with him and helped him up the stairs. He remembers clearly the look of cold rage on Peter’s face when he’d opened the door to find Stiles draped over Jim’s shoulder, incapable of standing. Peter’s eye had twitched, a dangerous sign, and he’d turned to Jim. “Thank you for bringing my absentee husband home,” he’d said stiffly, before turning a steely gaze on Stiles. “Inside, now,” he’d snapped, and something in his expression had Jim shoving Stiles forward and stuttering out an apology. But Jim had obviously been either smarter or more sober than Stiles at that stage, because even with seeing the eye twitch, had Stiles apologized?

No, he had not.

Stiles had, instead, poked a finger in Peter’s chest, leaned in close, and - Oh god.

He’d actually said, _“Your _absentee husband? I’m not yours. You don’t fucking _own _me, Peter.”

He’d said that_. To his Sir. _Like he wasn’t Peter’s through and through. 

And then, just as the icing on the fucking cake, he’d thrown up on Peter’s boots.

Stiles stands there till the water runs cold, swallowing back tears. He’s fucked up, and now he needs to find a way to fix it.

* * *

When he emerges from the shower he doesn’t bother to get dressed, instead heading downstairs to where Peter’s sitting on the couch. He drops to his knees in front of him and whispers, “I’m so sorry, Sir.” Peter doesn’t speak, but something in his face softens, so Stiles continues. “I – it was stupid, not calling. I know that. I was wrong. And I was wrong to say what I did. About not being yours.”

Peter stares for a long moment before he says, “I wondered if you’d remember that part.”

Stiles nods silently, hands at his side, and waits.

Peter puts a hand under his chin, tilting it up so he’s looking Stiles in the eye. “I only have one rule, Stiles. One. It’s to keep you safe, you know that.”

Stiles does know. He nods.

“Yet you chose to disregard it.”

Stiles bites his lip. “I’m so sorry, Sir.”

“You never, ever, worry me like that again, you hear?” Peter growls.

Stiles nods again, and whispers out, “No, Sir.” His hands curl into fists. He knows what he needs to do. “Please punish me?”

A look of surprise flits across Peter’s face before his expression turns speculative. “Feeling guilty baby? Want a clean slate?”

It’s exactly what Stiles wants. He’s self-aware enough that he needs to put this behind him, otherwise he knows he’ll end up carrying the guilt with him, feeling worse by the day and looking for hidden barbs in everything Peter says, no matter if they’re there or not. “Please, Sir?”

Peter hums. “And I choose the punishment?”

Stiles swallows. “You choose.”

Peter leans in and kisses Stiles on the forehead before sliding a hand round the base of his skull, and Stiles feels the pain from his hangover fading. Peter gives him a soft smile. “I want you to go and eat, then I want you to nap, and when you wake up, we’ll deal with this.” Some of the tension Stiles is carrying bleeds away at that, and he stands and pads out of the room on bare feet. He’s just reached the doorway when Peter says, “And Stiles?”

Stiles turns back quickly. “Yes Sir?”

Peter has what can only be described as an evil glint in his eye. “You’ll hate it.”

* * *

Stiles sleeps surprisingly well, considering. Maybe it’s because he knows that Peter’s at least partly forgiven him. Maybe it’s because his hangover symptoms are gone. Regardless, he naps for a good three hours, and wakes feeling a hundred times better than he did before. The sense of wellbeing only lasts for a moment though, before he remembers that Peter’s waiting for him.

He takes a small amount of comfort from the fact it won’t be the paddle. Peter’s used it on him exactly once, when he did something stupid and put himself in danger, and it had been awful. After three swats Peter had taken in Stiles’s tear streaked face and racing heartrate, frowned, and declared that the paddle was a no go, that next time he’d find something else.

Stiles doesn’t want to speculate on what that could be. He lingers in bed a few minutes longer, but now he’s started thinking about it, the anticipation’s getting to him, and he just wants it over with. He rolls out of bed and slides on a pair of sweats and goes to find Peter. Peter’s out in the garage, polishing his bike. When Stiles steps outside though, he drops the rag and strides over, taking Stiles by the elbow and peering at his face, assessing. “Feeling better, pet?”

Stiles nods. “I’m ready for – well, whatever.”

Peter grins a little too widely for Stiles’s liking. “Oh? Ready to take what I give you?” he purrs, his voice silky, dangerous.

“Yes, Sir,” Stiles breathes out.

“Bedroom, strip, lay on your back and wait for me,” Peter orders, and it _is_ an order.

Stiles nods and hurries to do his bidding, his mind whirring with possibilities. But he doesn’t have enough information. “On your back, wait for me,” could be anything. In the end he reminds himself that he’ll find out soon enough, and he strips and lays on the bed and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

He listens intently, but doesn’t hear the door open, doesn’t hear Peter’s boots, doesn’t hear anything. He closes his eyes and tries not to fidget. If seems like hours before he finally hears the click of the lock, the rattle of the security chain. He relaxes the tiniest bit.

Peter walks into the room with slow, deliberate steps. He doesn’t speak, just opens the bedside drawer and pulls out the rope they keep there. He wastes no time binding Stiles’s hands to the headboard with practiced ease and then stepping back to admire his handiwork. Stiles does his best to lie still and quiet.

Peter runs a hand down one bare thigh, trailing his fingertips lightly. Finally, he speaks. “How many of my calls did you ignore last night, pet?”

Stiles blinks as he tries to remember. He takes a wild guess. “Um. Three?”

“Try again, sweetheart. My husband disappears with no word for five hours. How many times do you think I called?”

Stiles bites his lip, closes his eyes, and tries to visualise the little red bubble on his phone. “Five. Five times.”

“Five,” Peter repeats. “And what did you do then, pet? After I tried to call five times? Remind me.”

“I turned my phone off,” Stiles says, miserable.

“That’s right. You turned it off, which I’ve specifically told you not to do, because I need to be able to reach you. But it’s all right, pet. Because you’re going to make it up to me, and you’re going to learn your lesson at the same time.” Peter strips out of his clothes as he talks and opens the bedside drawer and pulls out the lube. Peter slicks up his hand and starts playing with Stiles’s soft cock, getting him hard.

Stiles frowns. “What are you doing?”

Peter doesn’t answer, just starts to work Stiles cock, long leisurely strokes, and Stiles starts to rock into the motion. Peter though, leans over and holds him down, arm like a steel band over his stomach. “Stay still, pet.”

Stiles isn’t sure what’s happening, how this is meant to be punishment. A terrifying thought strikes him. “You’re not going to milk me dry, are you?”

Peter’s answering smirk isn’t reassuring in the least, and neither is his nonchalant, “You’ll see.” But his hand feels so nice, and he knows just how to make this good, so Stiles closes his eyes and lets himself get lost in sensation, in the heat of Peter’s flesh, the slickness of the lube, and before he knows it he’s close, moans slipping out between parted lips, just a little more –

Peter takes his hand away, grabs the base of Stiles’s cock in a firm grip that’s almost painful, and Stiles couldn’t come even if he wanted to. Stiles’s eyes snap open. His cock throbs, frustrated, and he can’t help the _“What the fuck?”_ that falls out of his mouth.

“Oh, baby. How sad for you. Look at you, all wound up and ready to shoot, and now you can’t,” Peter croons, before adding, “And you won’t, either.” He leans in close and murmurs, “Haven’t you figured it out, pet? I’m going to tease you right to the edge, and keep you there. And I’m going to do it again and again. In fact, I’m going to do it once for every unanswered call. And then, when I decide that you finally get to come? _I’m going to ruin it for you.” _ He sounds delighted at the prospect.

Stiles’s breath catches. This is the worst kind of punishment. “That’s – that’s not fair!”

“What’s not fair,” Peter says, deadly calm,” is you swanning off with your friends and leaving me trying to work out if you’re dead or missing because you won’t answer your phone. Can you imagine how worried I was, how frustrated?”

And that’s when Stiles gets it. Peter’s going to make the punishment fit the crime, make Stiles suffer just like he did. A low groan forces its way out. His cock’s straining, and he needs something, anything, to get him over the edge, but Peter’s grip is relentless.

“I’m sorry!” He squirms, trying to get relief and failing to move an inch.

Peter ignores his apology, and Stiles knows then that Peter’s going to make him endure every last minute of his punishment, that there’ll be no mercy shown. Peter loosens his grip on Stiles’s cock ever so slightly. “Shhh, give it a minute, pet. Then we’ll start again.”

Stiles lets his head fall back with a thunk. Orgasm denial’s one of Peter’s favorite things, but he doesn’t get to do it nearly as much as he’d like. Stiles isn’t a big fan, so Peter respects his limits.

Usually.

The minute Stiles said Peter could choose the punishment though, he should have guessed Peter would pick this. And Stiles knows he could safeword out if he wanted, but he needs this. He needs to earn Peter’s forgiveness, put last night’s debacle firmly in the past. 

So he closes his eyes, concentrates on deep even breaths, and tells himself he can do this.

Probably.

* * *

The second time Peter teases Stiles, he flips him over and rims him till he’s begging, then works Stiles’s cock with one hand and fingers him with the other, and just as Stiles is getting close, it all stops again. Peter doesn’t even grab his dick this time, just leaves him twitching in midair. Stiles lets out a sob, and Peter fusses gently, kisses his hair and calls him baby, and then waits for his arousal to subside, before saying smugly, “That’s two.”

The third time, the cruel bastard uses his mouth and Stiles decides he hates his husband. Peter’s grinning like a Cheshire fucking cat as he pulls off and wraps a firm hand around Stiles’ cock, like he doesn’t even _care_ that Stiles’s balls are aching, that he’s in agony, that if he doesn’t come soon, he might actually die.

“You won’t die, pet. You’re exaggerating,” Peter tells him, and Stiles registers that he must have said that out loud.

“I hate it!” he wails, tugging at the ropes restraining him.

“Hush, or I’ll put the cock ring on you,” Peter scolds.

Stiles shuts his mouth with a snap.

Peter smiles that wicked smile, and strokes a hand through Stiles’ hair, soothing, like he cares. “Three, baby. Over halfway,” he murmurs, and Stiles grabs onto that like a lifeline.

Peter gives him a few minutes, lets him catch his breath, and then his hands and mouth are roaming Stiles body, tugging at sensitive nipples, kissing down his throat, and his body’s curled over Stiles’s, Peter’s erection pressing against his own. Stiles whimpers and writhes, trying to get more friction, but Peter tilts his hips so their cocks are barely grazing, teasing Stiles so cruelly that Stiles thinks he might cry.

_You deserve this_, he reminds himself, _its punishment,_ _you earned it, and now you’ll take it, and then you’ll be done._

Peter slips down the bed and eases a hand between them, and his touch is light, gentle. Stiles shudders as long fingers brush up and down the length of his cock, tickling and teasing. “Please, Sir,” he can’t help but beg.

“Shhh, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” Peter’s tone is gentle, but his hand keeps moving, making Stiles’s dick twitch and jump under his touch. Stiles doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. He tries to thrust upwards, to get more, But Peter pulls his hands away completely. “Ah ah ah, you’re not in charge here,” he says lightly, as if Stiles could possibly forget.

Stiles manages to whimper, “Sorry, Sir,” and Peter rewards him with a firm hand on his cock and nice, long strokes. Stiles is on a hair trigger now, barrelling towards the edge, and this time he’ll get there, Peter won’t be able to stop him –

_“No.” _Peter grabs Stiles’s cock and squeezes_, _his eyes flaring red. Stiles yelps at the sudden painful pressure, and doesn’t come. He’s panting, open-mouthed, knows his face must be flushed, can feel the blood under his skin.

“That’s four. You look so pretty when you cry pet,” Peter says, running a thumb over Stiles’s cheek and collecting the tears gathered there. Stiles hadn’t even noticed them falling, too focussed on his building frustration. It feels like all it would take is a gentle breeze and he’d spill his load. Peter’s still watching him, and the bastard’s _smiling._ “One more,” Peter singsongs, and Stiles hates him right now.

“I can’t, Peter. _Please,_” he whines.

Peter raises his eyebrows. “Are you safewording?”

Stiles takes a deep breath and seriously considers the question. He could. But he knows he won’t. He’s so close to done, and if he stops now, he’ll regret it and the guilt will eat at him. With a groan, he shakes his head. “No, Sir. But this really, really sucks, just so you know.”

“It’s a punishment, Stiles. It’s supposed to suck,” Peter tells him, amused.

And Stiles knew that, he did. But he’s grateful for the reminder anyway. He settles himself on his back and spreads his legs wide. “I’m all yours, Sir,” he says, and knows Peter will get what he’s really saying.

Peter takes his time, running his palms down Stiles’s hips, over his belly and thighs, soothing, nonsexual touches that let Stiles get himself under control, and he’s grateful for that small mercy. But then Peter’s pressing Stiles’s legs up and apart, running his thumbs over his sensitive rim as he calls Stiles his pretty boy, his good pet, and the anticipation has Stiles shaking. He doesn’t know what’s coming, and it’s killing him not to ask, but he knows Peter wouldn’t tell him anyway. He closes his eyes and hopes whatever Peter’s planning, it’s over quickly.

The mouth on his cock is unexpected, Peter’s tongue skilled and relentless swirling round the head, and fuck, Stiles is going to come, he’s going to come right now, and he’s not going to be able to stop himself, and Peter will be so disappointed in him.

Stiles kicks and thrashes, incoherent noises spilling from his mouth, and Peter chuckles around his cock before pulling his mouth off.

Stiles starts pleading in earnest. “Please, please, I can’t - I need – _ohgodohgodohgod.” _Stiles knows he sounds pathetic, whining like a fucking baby, and he _does not care._

“Five,” Peter says softly. Stiles lets out a broken sob.

And then, miraculously, there’s a hand on his cock. Stiles bucks up into the touch as Peter strokes him expertly, his movements sure, and Stiles is – he’s gonna come, he’s finally gonna come. His cock throbs fit to burst, his balls draw up tight, he’s right there – and then Peter pulls his hand away a split second before it happens. Stiles comes.

Except he doesn’t, not really.

There’s _something,_ his dick dribbles and spurts and spits out a mess for sure, but it’s - it’s not _coming. _

Stiles is devastated, blindsided by having the anticipated pleasure so cruelly snatched away at the last moment. He stares, betrayed, as his cock continues to twitch and drip and ooze without any of the usual accompanying enjoyment. Nothing about this feels good, and he doesn’t know what to do with that. It’s the worst thing ever. He kinda wants to burst into tears.

_Peter actually did that to him._

It’s only made worse by the fact that for god knows what reason, Stiles thought maybe Peter would change his mind, that now he’d finished teasing he’d let Stiles off lightly. He should have known better.

His husband once shot out a man’s kneecap.

He’s not a merciful man.

Once Stiles’s orgasm, such as it is, has come to its inglorious conclusion, Stiles starts to shake as it hits him that it’s over. It was awful and terrible, and he never wants to do it again, but it’s done. There are strong arms around him, his wrists are freed, and Peter pulls him close and runs a comforting hand down his back. Stiles shivers in his grasp and starts to whisper a litany of, “I’m sorry Sir, so sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m yours, always yours,” over and over.

Peter’s voice is close to his ear. “You were perfect pet, so good for me, taking it so well.” He sounds so pleased, almost proud, and Stiles nestles against the crook of Peter’s neck, feeling…lighter somehow. Relief runs through him, because although he’s physically frustrated, he also knows he’s been absolved.

He stays curled up there for who knows how long, until he gets back some semblance of control, before he lifts his head and blinks slowly at Peter. “Done?” he asks, and his voice sounds small and fragile, and Stiles thinks maybe it’s fitting, because he _feels_ small and fragile right now.

“Done, baby. You did so well. I’m so happy with you my good, sweet boy. I know that was hard on you, but you did it.” The praise fills Stiles with warmth, and he can feel a dopey smile spread across his face.

He’s Sir’s good boy again.

* * *

Stiles doesn’t know how long he spends curled around Peter, soaking in comfort and warmth, but he must slip into a light doze, because when he opens his eyes Peter’s sitting on the edge of the bed, lightly shaking his shoulder and holding out a bottle of water. “Drink, pet.” Stiles obediently sits up and drinks the water, and he finds Peter’s murmured _“good boy”_ far more soothing than he probably should. He’s still sleep-addled or brain-fried or something.

He wants Peter, and he’s all the way over there, and that won’t do. Stiles shuffles over so he’s close enough to rest his head on Peter’s shoulder and gives a contented sigh. “I’m glad we’re done,” he mutters. “That sucked.”

Peter hums. “I don’t know, I rather enjoyed it.” Stiles jerks back and shoots him a betrayed look, but Peter shrugs. “You thought I wouldn’t? You know I love to make you beg, sweetheart.” And Stiles _does_ know. He snuggles back in with a huff and Peter runs a hand through his hair. “But you took your punishment like a good boy, and now we move on.” He strokes down Stiles’s spine, hands comforting and warm. “Shall I run us a bath?”

Stiles shakes his head. That sounds like effort. “Stay with me?”

Peter doesn’t need any encouragement, shoving the blankets back and settling them both underneath. Stiles cuddles in close, and for a while all he can focus on is the heat of Peter’s body and the pride in his voice when he calls Stiles his precious pet, murmuring words of affection into his hair. Stiles is still fuzzy round the edges, so it takes him a while before he’s ready to talk, but eventually he manages to string together the sentence he wants to get out. “Peter?”

“Yes, love?” Peter’s hand strokes his arm in encouragement.

“I really am yours. You know that, right?” Stiles feels a sudden desperate need to let Peter know.

“You’ve been mine since the moment I met you, pet.” Peter’s fingers tug absently at Stiles’s triskele pendant, and he sounds far too smug. But then, he’s right, so Stiles can’t really object. And anyway, that’s only part of what he needs to say.

Stiles takes a deep breath. “You were right to be angry. I didn’t consider how you’d feel when you didn’t know where I was, that you’d think something had happened to me. I was stupid, and selfish.”

“Yes, you were.” Stiles stiffens at that, but then Peter continues, “But you’ve paid the price, and it’s behind us now. And I’m assuming you’ve learned your lesson?”

There’s a definite question there, and Stiles is quick to agree. “I really have, I promise. I’ll let you know if I’m not coming home. And I won’t ever ignore your calls like that again.” Stiles knows if he could hear his own heartbeat, it would be rock steady.

Peter snuggles in close. “Good. because if you _ever_ frighten me like that again, your punishment will make this look like a walk in the park.” Stiles knows Peter’s not kidding, not even close, and he gives an involuntary shudder at the thought of it.

Peter, surprisingly, huffs out a laugh. “Now now, sweet boy. You got off lightly.”

_“Lightly?”_ Stiles props himself up and turns to face Peter. “How was that getting off lightly?” he demands.

Peter smirks. “Consider yourself lucky. I didn’t punish you for the five missed texts.”


End file.
